Last part of the gypsy mystery story. 3nodding
I moved away from the others and the quickly gathering crowd. my friend offered up a chair, which I gladly fell into. Pesha strummed the table with his fingers, staring off into the ether before him.
"Let's review, shall we?" I nodded, though the question was rhetorical. "The man and the woman were given a message and searching for some keepsakes their family'd smuggled away. That boy Ferka--"
"But he must be--"
"Bear with me. Ferka must be involved somehow. Also, there is the matter of the Penelope girl. She had no wounds. I think I've solved that. But the soot...the soot still--What did you do to your face?"
I touched my face and came away with blackened fingertips.
"I was helping the performers. You--" I paused. Pesha's jaw slackened, his eyes epiphanal globes. He spun to face me, crying, "Of course! It's so obvious!"
Grasping my face in both hands, he kissed me.
"You're brilliant! Brilliant!" He set off, cackling to frighten all the evil workers of the spirit in fifty miles. I sat, still too stunned to move. What was so brilliant that I'd said?
What seemed minutes later, I was stationed inside the room with the note and marble, as per Pesha's instructions. He'd told me to look investigative while he went to check something out.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring up at the portrait and mumbling Pesha's--no, their--riddle. Suddenly, "Oh, there's the one!" I jerked my head to the door. The sole Lancaster man stood in the doorway, a gun aimed at me that was awkward in his hold. Beside him was Ferka, posed nonchalantly against the frame, hand in his pocket. "Now I see that I hadn't lost my precious clues after all!"
"Ah, I remember you." Ferka moved toward my spot with deliberate steps, drawing his hand from its recess. "You were with that man. What a shame he's not with you." He gripped my jaw, a bitter smile on his face. I clenched my teeth. "Come now," he snarled, "open up your mouth."
"Put it down." Ferka looked up, as did I. The police force of the town--all six of them--stood around Lancaster, who'd obediently set down his weapon, and Pesha. Fear tinged his stance, but the menace in his words made up for it sevenfold. If the syllables had been solid knives I doubt they would have made Ferka into stew meat faster. "So help me, I'll have those damned gadjay shoot you just so I can drag you back from the netherworld to have you suffer the feeling of my hand ripping that rotten squash of a heart out of your carcass if you don't stand away from him!"
Needless to explain what speed he obeyed with.
The men restrained them, binding their arms behind their backs and keeping them there two officers apiece.
"Now, Mr...."
"Boyko," Pesha supplied absently, making sure for himself I'd ingested nothing by sticking his hand down my throat. The men cringed at their new mess.
"Mr. Boyko," the chief began again, "just what do you know? You said another murder was about to happen. Care to--"
"Explain? Will I? Gladly." He began his usual about-to-teach-the-ignorant stroll. "The woman in the painting: who was she?"
Rhetorical, obviously, but the chief answered, "The late Mrs. Lancaster."
"Wrong, you dolt." Pesha pointed a long finger to her. "She was a clan mother. She would have passed down the building to both offspring, naturally she wouldn't leave her son without a landlocked home as well as a sea abode. However, her knowledge and possesions would go to her daughter, the one who chose to strengthen the clan blood."
He moved to Ferka, twisting his locked arms more forcefully than necessary. Ferka made a yelping noise, releasing something into Pesha's grip. He revealed a chunk of mushroom. "I provide you with motive, and Mr. Smythe provided you the murder weapon."
"A mushroom?"
"Amanita Pantera, more commonly called a Panther Cap toadstool. Highly poisonous. So easily served up in a dinner dish. They searched for the meaning to the hiding place, sadly not able to find it before your arrival." Pesha rapped his fist slowly along the wall. Tha-thunk, tha-thunk, ti-tunk. Ti-thunk. "A hollow passage of escape. He lost his clip riding off."
"And the soot?"
"Ferka practices fire dancing. If you'll examine his hands you'll find sooty nails and burn scars."
"Where is it?" screamed Lancaster suddenly. "I know you've found it! Tell me, tell me where!"
"It's been in front of you all this time." Pesha took the two--where? ...oh, I give up--marbles and pushed them into the bottom corners of the frame. It swung open to reveal a cache of old papers and jewelry. "There's your treasure. Now, officers, I suggest you leave Ferka with the men below. We'll see he's...punished accordingly."
Pesha's fists made strangling grasps at Ferka as the clansmen led him away, kicking at them and screaming curses at all and sundry.
"You know..."
"I know." Pesha took a few steps and turned to me. A slow breezed passed over us.
"No," he murmured, shaking his head. I found myself in a fierce embrace. He leaned over, kissing my head. "You don't know." He smiled. It was smooth, like the breeze that swayed his midnight hair crosshatched with thin veins of white worry.
Turning toward the huddled mass of our band, the stealthy tools of his fingersmith trade drifted in my direction and caught my hand, meshing it in a warm squeeze.
"It's over." His arm found its spot as we started toward the crowd that had begun its wayward trek.
"Pesha?"
"Yes?"
"Why does everyone say you're mad?"
"It depends, tibya. Do you think I'm mad?"
Comments! *squee* 4laugh
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